


Motive

by FreshBrains



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blood, Boss/Employee Relationship, Character Study, Community: smallfandomfest, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, M/M, POV James Wesley, Pre-Canon, Service Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s nothing Wesley likes less than ruining a nice suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motive

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Small Fandoms Fest 18](http://smallfandomfest.livejournal.com/) prompt: _Daredevil (TV), Wilson/Wesley, service kink._
> 
> Violence is canon typical and more aftermath than anything.

“I can go to him.”

Wesley’s voice breaks into the room, hoarse from the long night’s sleep. Normally Wilson doesn’t like to talk in the mornings, but he’s in rare form, pliant in bed with the blankets still curled around his body, arm draped over Wesley’s waist. The blinds are closed, bathing the room in a hazy, milky light that further washes out the grey and whites of the décor.

Wilson doesn’t respond for a moment, so Wesley continues. “He’s young. He’s new to the area. Let me speak to him, sir. You don’t need to deal with this.” He thinks about the young man in question—Felix Antipin, a Kazakhstani arms dealer-turned-fugitive with ties to the Ranskahov boys. He’s a scrap of a thing, all elbow and knees, with an unforgiving shock of reddish hair and an unfortunate tattoo of an elephant on his bicep, but he’s got himself a big mouth—one of Wesley’s most niggling pet peeves.

Wilson raises an eyebrow and lets out a deep exhale, eyes on the pocked white painting across the room. “I let him in, so he _is_ my responsibility.”

After six years in Wilson Fisk’s employ, Wesley knows when his tone means the conversation is over. “Alright. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, sir.”

“I always do, Wesley. Thank you.” He sits up in bed and leans over to press a kiss to Wesley’s brow, his way of starting the day. If they were different men, Wesley would push, ask Wilson to let him take care of it, start an argument. He’s done it before, and Wilson always reasons with him, calm but firm—they’ve never been ones for drama, at least not between them, even when tensions run high. But Wesley doesn’t _want_ to. He wants to accept his kiss and stay in bed until Wilson leaves, then he’ll jerk off in the shower, put on his suit, and do his damn job.

*

Wesley is halfway through his briefing with Madame Gao when his phone buzzes. The tone and cadence of the buzzing lets him know Wilson is on the other end, so he excuses himself and takes the call in the warehouse hallway.

“Take care of him,” Wilson says in lieu of a greeting, and pauses. “Please. You were right, Wesley.”

Wesley presses his lips into a firm line and checks his watch. “Take care of him, sir?”

“I trust you to use your best judgment,” Wilson says, voice even. “Come home safe tonight.”

“I will, sir,” he says, and pockets the phone. His gun is at his hip, loaded as usual, and he’s ready to use it.

*

There’s nothing Wesley likes less than ruining a nice suit.

He only had one suit for his entire life before working for Wilson—a brown corduroy thing his aunt bought for him for Synagogue when he was eighteen, faded at the elbows and knees, tailored so many times that little of the original suit remained. He had two shirts, one tie, and one pair of nice shoes. But Wilson took care of his employees, especially his right hand. He purchased suits by the dozens, pallets of shirts, a pair of shoes for every day of the week. Wesley was shocked at first, not understanding the generosity—he didn’t understand that kind of money. He never dreamed of owning anything as nice as the things Wilson bought him.

He cherished them quietly; subtly. He brought them to the dry cleaner below his apartment every day, the apartment he refused to move out of even at Wilson’s behest, and Pia, the girl at the desk, always let her hands linger reverently on the rich fabric as she hung them up. Wesley didn’t mind—he did the same thing.

But now his suit is ruined. He stares into the mirror, chest still heaving with exertion, and cringes at the scattering of blood all over the dove grey of the jacket, the white of the shirt, the shiny darkness of his shoes. His tie is ruined from being crumpled in Antipin’s grimy fist. The French cuffs of his shirt are soaked through, stark against his bare hands, clean from the ice-cold warehouse water. He squeezes them and orange-red wells between his fingers. He’s never seen this much blood without having his employer in the room.

He strips slowly, kicking the shoes under the bed, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders. He doesn’t want to ruin his sheets so he turns it inside out, revealing the beautiful silk lining, and folds it twice. The pants come next, and his stomach turns upon closer inspection. The knees are stiff with dried blood and something else—he sniffs, turning away in disgust, when he realizes Antipin pissed himself.

“Coward,” he says, but his voice isn’t venomous, not anymore. It’s soft, frightened. He removes his shirt, noticing a button had popped off sometime during the struggle. A brief flash of panic seizes his chest—leaving evidence at the crime scene was _not_ good—but he knew Wilson would take care of it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Wesley fishes it out, smearing blood on the smooth surface. “Yes, sir,” he answers, standing in the middle of his bedroom in nothing but his boxers.

“You took care of it,” Wilson says, voice slow and quiet. He’s at home; Wesley can hear the soft notes of music coming from his sound system.

Wesley pauses, stomach dropping. “Was it not to your satisfaction?” _Sir_ , he adds mentally, swallowing hard.

“No, Wilson adds quickly. “No. It was perfect.”

Wesley closes his eyes. He’s hard—painfully so, and it happened so suddenly, like his body was given no warning. But then again, Wilson’s praise was much the same. It came seldom, but when it did, it mattered. He clenches his fist, nails digging into his palms. “I’ve…I’ve never…”

“I know,” Wilson says. “You fought today. Did it…” he takes a sharp breath. “How did it feel, for you? Are you…alright?”

Wesley is flushed on his neck and chest, cock pulsing in his boxers. “I’m just fine, sir.”

The line is quiet, save for the aria filtering in through the background. “Come over, Wesley. I will send a car for you.”

Wesley’s shoulders sag in relief. He’ll get fucked, he knows he will—he can tell by the tightness in his employer’s voice, the edge to his breathing. He’ll have it how he wants it because Wilson would never make him do anything he didn’t like. Wesley prefers being in his lap, face buried in Wilson’s neck, Wilson’s big hands on his hips—safe, warm, overwhelmed, and best of all, aiming to please.

_You’re good,_ Wilson says before he comes, eyes slammed shut, _you’re so good to me_.

“I’ll be there soon, sir,” Wesley says. He needs to change before the car comes.

It wouldn’t do to see his employer in a ruined suit.


End file.
